


Perils of Entomology

by radialarch



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Joan investigate the murder of a butterfly enthusiast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perils of Entomology

**Author's Note:**

  * For [etben](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etben/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, etben, I hope you enjoy this! All the thanks to K and M, lovely and capable betas ♥
> 
> (Note: This fic was written before 2x04, so apologies for canon that's happened since then.)

“Okay, did you leave Clyde outside my door?” Joan says, marching downstairs with Clyde and a fistful of lettuce. “I could’ve killed him!” 

“That’s quite unlikely,” Sherlock says, meeting her in the foyer. “His shell can withstand about two _hundred_ times his body weight. In an altercation between the two of you, I don’t believe he’d be the one injured.” 

“Oh, because that’s so much better.” She rolls her eyes, shooing Clyde into the living room. 

“All of this is immaterial in the face of an actual _case_ , Watson,” Sherlock says, impatient. “I’ve picked up something on the scanner – we need to get to the station.” 

* 

“Meet Frank Simpson,” Gregson says, gesturing at the interrogation room beyond the one-way mirror. “Says he’s a reporter, but here on vacation. Meanwhile, we’ve got multiple eyewitnesses saying that yesterday, Simpson ran into John Straker on the street and started asking questions. Aggressively. Straker retreated into his apartment, but one of his neighbors _swears_ that she saw Simpson hanging around their hallway that evening.” 

“I didn’t kill him!” Simpson is protesting inside, freckles standing out in a very pale face. “Why would I want to do that?” 

“Oh, maybe you were angry that he wouldn’t give you his story,” Bell shrugs. “Angry enough that you grabbed _this_ —” he holds up a picture of a bloodied ceramic figurine “—and bashed his head in with it.” 

“I have never seen that in my life,” Simpson says. “Ch-check it for fingerprints!” 

“Yeah, unfortunately, it crashed into a pool of blood and ruined any chance of getting decent prints,” Bell snorts. “So it’s still your word against the world’s, pal.” 

“No alibi, huh?” Joan mutters, gaze fixed on Simpson’s desperate gestures. 

“Oh, come now,” Sherlock says derisively. “Captain, you really believe this dullard could commit a murder?” 

“In my line of business, you learn that most crimes are in fact committed by dull, ordinary people,” Gregson says with narrowed eyes. “Sorry real life isn’t exciting enough for you. Now, go home – we’ll call you in when we actually need you.” 

* 

Sherlock doesn’t seem that ruffled when they step outside the station, and Joan grins at him. “We’re not going home, are we?” she says. “Simpson’s body language – you think he was telling the truth.” 

“I’m glad you agree, Watson,” Sherlock says, approving. “Yes, we are paying a visit to Mr. Straker's home. We need more _data_.” 

* 

It turns out that Straker’s next-door neighbor had called in the murder. When Joan knocks at her apartment door, there’s a tremendous amount of barking before a woman answers. 

“Shh,” she admonishes a small, fluffy dog, then looks up. “Can I help you?” 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Joan Watson,” Sherlock says. “We’re consultants with the NYPD. Would you mind if we asked you some questions about the murder of your neighbor, Ms—?” 

“Carolyn Ross,” she says, scooping up the dog and stepping back. “Sure, come on in.” 

* 

“John was a pretty quiet neighbor,” Ross explains when they’re all seated in the living room. “Didn’t cause any trouble. But last night, there was that reporter hanging around, trying to talk to him? And then I was about to go to bed when I heard some sort of scuffle – the walls are pretty thin, you know – and his dog started barking up a storm! I got a bit worried and thought I’d better go check on John.” 

“What about the dog?” Joan asks. “Did it get hurt?” 

“Oh, no. This is him, actually.” She smiles fondly at the dog chewing at a sofa leg. “Wellington. I found him wandering the hallway and thought I'd better take him in.” She bows her head briefly. “He’s used to staying with me anyway, I’d sit for him when John went away for weekends.” 

“Went away to do what?” Sherlock frowns. 

“Oh, he would go away all the time chasing butterflies or moths or something like that. He liked them; he was always trying to classify them.” 

“Yes, that’s apparently what Mr. Simpson wanted to talk to him about,” Sherlock says. “Odd that Mr. Straker would let him into his apartment, given that he’d refused an interview earlier in the day.” 

“Yeah, I don’t know anything about that,” Ross says earnestly. “Like I said, I just got concerned when things started getting loud.” 

“Ms. Ross,” Joan breaks in. “I just want to clarify – you said you heard a fight, and _then_ the dog barking? Did you happen to hear him before the fight?” 

“No.” She shakes her head, definitive. “I saw that reporter coming up the stairs while I was taking out the trash and managed to chase him away, and then things were quiet before...you know.” 

“Just one last question,” Sherlock says, “and then we’ll be on our way. Was there anyone who visited Mr. Straker regularly?” 

“I think he hosted some of his butterfly club meetings here,” Ross says, thoughtful. “Couple times a month.” 

“Well, thank you, Ms. Ross,” Joan says, getting to her feet. “This was really helpful.” 

* 

“I weep for humanity, Watson,” Sherlock comments outside the building. “So many busybodies and gossips, eagerly hiding behind the pretense of _concern_.” 

“But it meant she probably wasn’t lying to us,” Joan says triumphantly, “which means it wasn’t Simpson. The killer was someone Straker _knew_.” 

“I admit that was quite inspirational. Asking about the dog.” 

“Well, it barked at us when we knocked, so I figured it should have barked at the killer, too. Now all we have to do is figure out why someone from his club would want to kill him!” 

“On that I think I can hazard a fairly good guess.” Sherlock holds up his phone. “Mr. Simpson’s article was to have been about the designation of a new species of moth, based on a publication of Mr. Straker. Now, suppose that there was, in fact, another party involved in the discovery...” 

“You think _that’s_ why he was killed?” Joan raises her eyebrows. “Come on, there are lots of moths, and it’s not like there’s money involved. You really think someone could get that upset over one species?” 

“It’s not about the moth, Watson.” Sherlock looks faintly disdainful. “It’s about...recognition. Acknowledgement that you’ve contributed to your chosen taxonomical branch. A work of love, if you will. And that, certainly, is an excellent motivator.” 

“Oh.” Joan gives Sherlock a long look. “Guess we’d better start tracking down club members.” 

* 

At the mention of Straker, Ariana Hayes stares at them suspiciously before reluctantly letting them into her apartment. 

“Miss Hayes, I understand you’re something of a lepidopterist,” Sherlock begins. “You are, in fact, a member of a club devoted to the subject, are you not?” 

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “We meet up to go out in the field, talk about different types we’ve seen, things like that.” 

“Now, Mr. John Straker, another member of your society, had recently published an official species description of a new type of moth – _Sphinx strakerii_ , he called it. Quite presumptuous of him, I admit, considering that you were the one who discovered it.” 

“What?” Hayes flinches, gaze flicking away from Sherlock’s. 

“You’d just got the news,” Joan continues, gently. “You realized he’d taken all the credit, and went to his apartment to confront him, didn’t you?” 

Hayes’s fists are clenched in her lap, trembling. “Look, I didn’t—I wasn’t trying—” she starts, voice shaking. “He said—he wasn’t sorry at all, and this was my first...I just got so _angry_.” 

“I know,” Joan says softly. She reaches out to gather Hayes into her arms and watches Sherlock text Gregson, an unhappy tilt to his mouth. 

* 

Some weeks later, Joan manages to corner Sherlock in their kitchen. 

“Okay, so...I know it’s your birthday,” she says, bouncing on her feet. 

“Really, Watson?” Sherlock scoffs. “Birthdays are rather meaningless. Society has decided to capitalize on it because clearly we don’t have enough celebrate.” 

“Yes, because celebrations are fun!” 

“If you truly feel the need to do so, you might pursue other options – the day I began to learn about deductive reasoning, for example. One could consider that my spiritual birthday, if you will.” 

“Okay, well, today’s your _real_ birthday, and I got you this!” She takes a steadying breath and holds out a plain white envelope. “Take it, it’s for you.” 

There’s a moment when he’s just looking inside, and Joan waits with her heart in her throat before he says, softly, “Oh.” 

“I got the idea from that moth case,” she says quickly. “And I remembered the box bee and...yeah. So I started talking to someone from ICZN, and he was really interested in the whole thing.” 

“It _was_ a rather remarkable event,” he agrees, clutching hard at the piece of paper. 

“So in light of that, they’re reclassifying a lot of bees, and I said that maybe you...should be a part of it.” 

“I—no, this is too—” 

“You could just say thank you.” 

“Thank you, Watson,” Sherlock says, voice thick. “This is quite wonderful.” 

“Happy birthday, Sherlock,” Joan beams back, thrilled down to her bones. “You deserve it.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- The general shape of the case and many names were lifted from ACD, which may become more obvious with these facts in hand:  
>  Ariana, from Welsh "arian", _silver_  
>   Hayes, from Gaelic "O hAodha", _descendant of fire_  
>  Then Wellington, of course, is a shout-out to "The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time".
> 
> \- ICZN: the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature, the institution in charge of standardizing animal species' names
> 
> \- Sadly, the practice of men taking credit for the work of their female colleagues/underlings is not uncommon throughout scientific history.
> 
> \- The last scene is my attempt to rationalize the existence of _Euglassia watsonia_ , as under the current classification scheme, box bee ( _Osmia avosetta_ ) and honey bees (likely _Apis mellifera_ ) are...not very closely related at all.


End file.
